| |
The air was alive with tension as Rostfar, Aethren, and Isha crossed the open plain. Faren and his army had retreated behind the crest of a large hillock, leaving the trade-flag planted at its summit. All Rostfar could see was that dark lump on the ground at the hillock’s base.
“Is that . . .” Aethren shielded their eyes from the sun, their shoulders going tense. “Rost, are any of the pack missing?”
Just behind them, Rostfar heard Isha stop walking. Horror and recognition sluiced through her veins like ice as she realised what – who –she was looking at. She wanted to stop, too, but her legs refused to listen.
Unwolf.
Gone were the malice and cunning that had so marked Unwolf’s scarred body. It lay bound in thick netting, blood seeping into the cold earth, quivering from head to tail tip.
Rostfar’s stomach churned in her throat. Hardly aware of what she was doing, she dropped her spear and knelt at Unwolf’s side.
Two arrows protruded from Unwolf’s flank. The shafts had snapped off, leaving jagged splinters that shifted sickeningly with every breath Unwolf took. That wasn’t the worst of it, though. Most of the blood seemed to be coming from a broken-off spear shaft embedded in Unwolf’s ribcage. It looked like someone had tried to retrieve the spear but given up on the attempt, and the flesh around it was torn ragged.
Unwolf didn’t even seem to notice her. Although its
(her)
eyes were wide open, they were glazed with panic and pain.
Rostfar heard Isha explaining in a slow, faltering voice. “The – the thing that attacked Rost. There were two of them. A wraith-riddled beast, and this one. I don’t know why Faren would have—”
“Don’t touch it, Rost!” Aethren interrupted sharply. It took Rostfar a moment to realise they were talking to her. She looked down at her own hand, hovering just above Unwolf’s twitching nose.
“Her,” Rostfar corrected, very quietly. “Look at her. She . . . she’s in so much pain.”
“We need to go,” Isha said urgently. “This isn’t – I don’t like this.”
Rostfar swallowed queasily. Her stomach was doing mushy backflips, but she couldn’t stop her hands from carefully probing the base of the spear. Unwolf let out a blood-thickened snarl.
“Stop it!” Aethren tried to pull her away, but Rostfar shook them off. Some power she couldn’t name was nudging her hands, guiding her, and she had no desire to fight it.
“The pup-killer,” Unwolf rasped. Rostfar was so surprised at hearing her speak that she jerked. Aethren’s insistent hands on her shoulders went still.
“Don’t talk,” Rostfar said. Unwolf’s sides heaved and her eyes opened again, fixing on Rostfar with sudden clarity.
“We followed him here, to end . . . and then to find safety—” She coughed up a glob of blood. “The wraiths promised us, said he would never find refuge. But what . . . what refuge for us, afterwards?”
“Someone killed your pups?” Rostfar asked. Without looking away from those rolling, bloodshot eyes, she gestured for Aethren and Isha to move nearer.
Unwolf whimpered. She looked so small and helpless in the net, almost like a pup herself. “He made promises, too. Said there would be enough food for us all.”
“Who did?” Rostfar tried to keep her voice light and coaxing, but it was hard. She could feel Unwolf’s ribcage beneath her fingers, bones broken from the force of the spear, and knew there was no hope for her. Whoever had tried to pull the spear out had seen to that.
Isha crouched tentatively at Rostfar’s side. He touched her shoulder to get her attention and said gently, “We have to go. You can’t do anything for her.”
Rostfar looked at Unwolf, broken and dying, and knew he was right. Slowly, ruefully, she began to get to her feet.
Unwolf’s head moved with desperate speed, her teeth latching onto the hem of Rostfar’s cloak sleeve. Her eyes were wild now; the light in them going out with a final, defiant flare. A few tentative tendrils of – thoughts? soul? – crept from her mouth and out from her wounds, snaking into the wyrdness.
“Listen,” Unwolf hissed.
“What’s happening?” Aethren’s voice was hushed as if they dared not take in enough air to speak. “I can feel something, like . . . what’s it doing?”
“It’s alright,” Rostfar said softly. “Put your hand on her, here.” She guided Aethren and Isha’s fingers until they were both touching a place from which the tendrils unspooled. A long, painful breath passed without event.
The memory that snapped up to claim them was drenched in blood. Pain and terror sucked at the very marrow of Rostfar’s being, pulling her in. It demanded attention, craved it; the desire to be heard was overwhelming.
Flashes of noise. Smells. Fragments. Rostfar didn’t want to see and she didn’t want to look away. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She needed to run, because he had tricked her and time was running out, and she couldn’t.
—Flesh, breaking
ropes, tightening
rending breaking tearing.
(mother help us)
anger. fire.
humans
(Illarieth where are you?)
running, lungs quaking, head spinning
(please! —)
The human, spear in hand, mouth a black hole of terror
his flesh, hot and soaked in fear and—
blood. not his.
(my pups)
a pit, filled with
(no)
small corpses and
(no!)
terrible silence.
It was over. Rostfar sank into the familiarity of her own skin and stifled a sob as someone else’s grief ran through her body.
“Illarieth,” Rostfar whispered. Unwolf – Illarieth – looked up. Surprise bristled through her whole body.
“So long since . . . I heard my name,” Illarieth whispered in a distant voice. She rattled out a gentle sigh, closed her eyes, and died.
“You saw that?” Aethren asked in a small, horrified voice.
Isha let out a very wolf-like whimper. “I saw – that was—” he didn’t seem able to say the name, but Rostfar had no such qualms. She bared her teeth and clenched her fists.
“Faren,” she snarled.
“Rostfar.”
All three of them looked up. Faren had topped the hillock, leading Hrall and four archers. Youngsters all of them – other than Hrall – and Rostfar had trained every last one. Rostfar wanted to look away, but her neck was locked in place. She had expected to see hatred on their faces, but there was only fear and confusion. Not as bad as them despising her, but a dangerous combination nonetheless.
Faren was carrying Ethy’s solid quarterstaff, but Rostfar saw the top of an abnormally large bow over his shoulder. The quiver at his waist was full of grey-fletched arrows.
Isha pressed the back of his hand to hers, reminding her to breathe. Unwolf’s blood was soaking through the knees of her leggings, and the heat of it drowned out everything else.
“She’s dead,” Rostfar heard herself say. “You killed her pups, destroyed her family. Wasn’t that enough?”
The triumph in Faren’s eyes sputtered out. “What?”
“She followed you from Ysaïn – but you knew that, didn’t you?” As Rostfar’s voice rose, she got to her feet and began to walk up the slope towards him. He flinched and took half a step back. “You knew what was terrorizing us, and why, and you said nothing.”
“You don’t know – you can’t know—”
Rostfar came to a stop with barely a hand’s breadth between them. “I know you’re a murderer, and a coward, and that you would rather let children die than face what you did.”
There was a long moment when Faren looked openly terrified; like he might just drop his weapon and run. His lips trembled and his breath sputtered out in sharp, short bursts. Rostfar planted her feet and lifted her chin in silent defiance.
And then Faren drove the butt of the staff into Rostfar’s face. Rostfar had barely registered the pain before another blow landed in her chest. She heard Isha’s shout and felt his arms around her midriff, but it was no use. They both fell – him barely supporting her, gripping so tight it hurt – and skidded on the bloodied scree.
“Are you out of your minds?”
The shout that rang out in the confused silence was loud and clear. It seemed bigger than sound, somehow; like there was more power in it than that of a human voice.
Rostfar looked up blearily, trying to blink the blinding white sunlight from her eyes. She could see a short, stout figure shouldering its way through the line of archers and thought she knew who it was, but it couldn’t be —
“Urdven?” Isha’s breath was hot against her ear, his tone coloured with the same disbelief she was feeling.
Rostfar had never heard Urdven raise his voice. Her brain was still refusing to process his presence as he strode down the slope towards her and Isha.
He didn’t look any different – there was no aura of power or charisma around him, no change in his clothes or his mannerisms. If anything, he looked older and smaller, as if the past months had aged him another decade. There were a few streaks of grey in his hair that Rostfar had never seen before.
“Are you harmed, Rost-Skelda?” he asked softly, offering her a hand. Numb with shock, Rostfar allowed him to help her up, then she pulled Isha to his feet as well.
“I’m . . . I’m fine,” she said once she could speak again. Urdven quirked an uncertain smile.
“What are you doing?” Aethren demanded sharply, stomping up to Rostfar’s side. They had a knife in their hand and wary expression on their face, and their eyes kept flicking from Faren to Urdven as if they didn’t know who posed the greater threat. Rostfar put out a placating hand.
Rather than answering Aethren, Urdven turned back to Hrall and the archers, all of whom seemed frozen in shock. He kept his body planted firmly in front of the three of them, shoulders squared to try and make himself bigger.
“Traitor,” Faren spat. The word he used was harsh and archaic, its meaning closer to family-destroyer. Rostfar thought darkly that such a word would be better used to describe him.
But Urdven seemed unbothered.
“No, I’m not,” he said, quite calm and pleasant. “You never cut down Rost-Skelda’s malstenn, you know? Never disowned her. She’s still your Dannaskeld.”
Rostfar’s gratitude was so strong it hurt. Her throat felt like it was full of hot needles. She reached back blindly until she found Isha’s hand and held him tight, only remembering to breathe again when he squeezed her fingers in return.
Faren’s mouth opened and closed silently.
“Be ready to run, Rost-Skelda,” Urdven said in a quiet voice meant only for her ears. He didn’t look away from Faren, but he turned his head just a fraction to the side so that Rostfar could see a sliver of his mouth and one serious green eye.
“Why are you helping us?” Aethren didn’t sound so hostile now; just . . . disbelieving. And perhaps a little choked-up.
Urdven’s smile was muted. “I see things the same as you do.”
Rostfar went cold all over as she realised what he meant. “You can – you have . . .?”
“How else do you think I befriended the hive?” Urdven raised one eyebrow.
“But how do you know I —?”
“Ket knew how to keep a secret. But sometimes there were things she said, things that let me piece it together. I doubt anybody else would’ve figured it out, but, well.” He shrugged. “Experience speaks to experience.” The smile faded from his face and he looked at Rostfar with searching, watery eyes. “Aethren said Ket’s still alive. Is it true?”
Rostfar nodded.
“Then you’ve got to get out of here and find your girl.” As he spoke, Urdven withdrew a slingshot from under his cloak and reached into a little bag at his belt. “I didn’t get to live my life unafraid, but maybe she will.”
“Urdven, no,” Rostfar croaked softly, desperately, wanting to move him out of harm’s way.
She never got a chance.
A dark shadow swooped down out of the sky. A raven, her racing mind thought at first – but no, that wasn't right. This thing was all feathers and talons, true, but it was vast. Too vast. Her heart knew what she was seeing, though. It soared in her chest, ringing with a single, triumphant realisation: the hrafmaer had come.
Aethren reached for Rostfar's arm. She glanced back and saw the expression on their face was tense. Almost like . . . fear?
"What—" She didn't have time to finish the question. A single, vaguely human shape dropped from the air and laded just in front of their group. Other hrafmaer remained in an undefined spool, twisting above their heads like a cloud of smoke. It was impossible to tell how many there were: eyes and beaks and talons flashed from the cloud in constant motion, making Rostfar feel dizzy.
"Hrafaïn," said the one who had landed, glancing back to Aethren with a curt expression. Her shape was firmer now, and although her body remained shrouded in dark grey mist, Rostfar could see that her dress was yellow.
"Flannað?" Aethren sounded incredulous, but the tense expression on their face relaxed.
"You know these – um, people, Rost-Skelda?" Urdven asked in a hushed voice. He had stumbled back to Rostfar’s side
"I – I do," Aethren said. "I—" They seemed to choke on the rest of their sentence. Their face went slack with horror, eyes wide and mouth open soundlessly. Rostfar whirled back just in time to see Faren abandon Ethy's quarterstaff and take up his bow. It was a heavy weapon of K’anakhi design, far less agile than the Ysish model but much more powerful. A detached part of Rostfar's mind noted his proficiency as he nocked an arrow and drew the string back to his cheek.
The arrow flew straight at Flannað, keen and lethal and unstoppable. Rostfar lifted one foot as if she could do something, anything, to intercept its flight. The rest of her was slow to move, her blood frozen in her veins. She watched in certain dread as the arrow —
The arrow passed through Flannað’s chest.
Flannað glanced down at where her body had parted around the arrow like a river around a boulder. Her face was turned away from Rostfar, but her body language radiated a distinct sense of unimpressed irritation. Rostfar uttered a high, tremulous noise in her relief.
"Rost-Skelda?" Urdven said. He sounded faintly surprised.
Rostfar turned to him.
The arrow sprouted from his sternum, every fine grey barb of the fletching still quivering from impact. She couldn't see any blood around the shaft, but small flecks of red appeared on Urdven's lips as he coughed. He swayed in place, one hand half-raised to his chest, a look of blank confusion on his face.
"No," Rostfar whispered.
Urdven went first his knees, then sprawled face-first on the bloodied earth. He didn't move.
Rostfar turned on Faren. He stood at the top of the mound with his bow in his hands, as still as Urdven's corpse. His face was a mask of horror. Somehow, that just made Rostfar angrier.
"You killed him," she spat, snatched her spear from its makeshift sheath, and launched herself into a run. Wind roared in her ears. She might have screamed, but she couldn't be sure. Something cold and choking surrounded her and hard, clawed fingers dug into her shoulders. She tried to fight, to writhe free, but her feet weren't on the ground anymore and she was rising, lifted away from the corpse of her friend and the man who had killed him.
